


On Romancing a Sith Lord

by Fionavar



Series: Malavaiira [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Also a bit messed up, F/M, Romance, Slightly divergent from canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 08:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6746380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionavar/pseuds/Fionavar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malavai Quinn, being an intelligent, subtle man, has a definite plan for his life. Lord Baras's apprentice figures heavily in that plan. This had better work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Romancing a Sith Lord

**Author's Note:**

> I finished the SW storyline on Saturday night, and had finished writing this by Wednesday. Didn't expect to have such strong opinions or headcanons, but there you go. I hope you enjoy!

There are only two true powers in the Empire, only two paths to success, and as Malavai Quinn lacks the necessary capacity to be Sith, he enters the military. It suits him better in any case; the chain of command is clearer, the requisite skills come easily to him, and the chance of being murdered by ambitious subordinates or scheming superiors is much, much lower. Nevertheless, if the military is safer, the highest ranks are difficult to reach without personal connections that Quinn does not possess. Moreover, the Sith have more freedom and more personal power, so Quinn makes most of his career decisions with the aim of attaching himself to a Sith. Let him become useful, indispensable, as trusted a servant as any Sith will permit in their presence, and then he will enjoy the best that both paths have to offer.

He curses when Moff Broysc’s idiocy at the battle of Druckenwell looks likely to cost him years of patient work, but instead, fortune favours him. Darth Baras has been paying attention, it seems, and if Quinn has lost standing with the military, he has gained a Sith’s patronage. For the present it means only another set of orders, and he is exiled to Balmorra, but there is potential for so much more. He will acquit his duties well, and once Darth Baras is satisfied of his capability and his loyalty, further advancement (and permission to leave Balmorra) would certainly follow.

Darth Baras orders his apprentice to Balmorra, and Quinn thinks little of it at first. There is almost no opportunity for him attached to it, after all. He knows that Sith frequently betray their masters, so there is no point ingratiating himself with the apprentice. Alternatively, although it is pleasant enough to daydream of dealing with a treacherous apprentice himself and winning high favour in his master’s eyes, he does not much like his chances of doing so single-handed, and any other method would require too much support, too many resources. So he will simply be as helpful as Darth Baras has ordered him to be, and leave the inevitable conflict in his master’s hands.

That is the plan.

When he sees her, he recalculates.

Quinn can almost feel the power in the air about her, thick and crackling as a breaking storm. He has never felt so much in awe, not in the presence of Moffs or generals, or even her master. Perhaps – the obvious factor – it is only that she is here in person, when he has only seen Darth Baras in holographic communication, but Quinn finds that difficult to believe. He is abruptly certain (and recognises it is dangerous and probably stupid to assume so much, so quickly) that if it comes to a fight between master and apprentice, Darth Baras will fall before her.

That is one consideration. The second is foolish of him, unworthy, but it is simply this: in all his life, he has never seen a more magnificent woman. She is almost a head taller than him – and he is not a short man – broad in the shoulder, long in the leg, strength in every line of her form. Her face, framed by close-cropped black hair and marked with delicate cybernetic enhancements, shows little of the characteristic decay of the Sith as yet. Her golden gaze rests on him. Either Sith women have nothing in common with their military counterparts, or else she enjoys what she sees as much as he does.

He would very much like to attach himself to such a woman. The prospects are much more alluring than Darth Baras’s service, especially since she appears to return his attraction and everyone knows that the Sith positively _encourage_ fraternisation. Somehow he stumbles through an introduction. The Twi’lek slave behind her snickers, then gasps for air as her mistress punishes her outburst.

“I am Vaiira Kel’Shanna, apprentice to Darth Baras,” she tells him, and they turn to business.

 When Balmorra is secured, Darth Baras gives him the freedom to choose his own command, and without a moment’s hesitation, he requests to serve under Vaiira. He will not be rash, Quinn counsels himself. There will be time to observe both master and apprentice and decide which is likely to prove the victor when it comes to a confrontation between them. It is even remotely possible he will never need to choose a side. Quinn only knows which Sith he would prefer to see triumphant.  

* * *

Vaiira takes him with her, on Nar Shaddaa, and Quinn begins to learn her. What she likes, how she reacts, how she fights. She respects authority, but does not allow her superiors to condescend to her – or to him. She serves the Empire loyally, and goes out of her way to see what she may do to aid its cause. The more he sees, the more certain he is that he wishes to cement himself beside her, as her right hand.

When she is intent upon her prey, sabers alight, he has never seen a purer expression of power or beauty.

As he learns, he begins to ingratiate himself. Carefully, not obviously; he never makes the first move. When she compliments him, or makes her interest known, he flusters a little (and that is not entirely assumed) and defers, deflects her questioning of his own sentiments. Subtlety cannot be overrated.   

Nor is he always as she might wish. Vaiira has no patience with sycophants, and he does, in truth, disagree with several of her actions. She is hot-tempered, always eager to kill; she does not always think through the potential consequences and risks, because she is certain her power will bring her through safely. Like all Sith, she underestimates those who cannot use the Force – their capabilities and their uses. Quinn voices his disapproval on these subjects, where appropriate. He cannot expect a Sith to respect someone who never shows their teeth or their spine.

 Eventually, he is satisfied enough with the progress he has made to approach her, seeking confirmation that she has no interest in him beyond their professional relationship. It is not easy to maintain his composure when she speaks very directly of her attraction; her words would heat any man’s blood. And then she kisses him. It is fierce, demanding – just as he had known her kiss would be. There is no gentleness in her, only passion and hard desire. Those he can answer, and he draws back with genuine reluctance as she does.

“It is not proper,” he protests. There should be no such relationship between them; it threatens to cloud their judgement and distract them from their duties. He says these things, but he knows her response before she makes it.

 “ ‘Through passion, I gain strength’,” Vaiira says, and runs a finger down his throat. “Together, Malavai Quinn, we can be very, very strong.  You’ll see.”

* * *

The ship fills up with other crew, and Quinn watches them carefully. One might be a danger, or more clever than he; one might even be his rival for Lord Vaiira’s attention. Vette is obviously of no concern or value; he is only surprised Vaiira still keeps her around. The Talz is a straightforward brute – dangerous, certainly, but of limited intelligence and cunning. Lieutenant Pierce is a disgrace to his commission, and Quinn has noticed him watching Vaiira, but he, too, lacks brains.

No. The one who concerns him is Jaesa Wilsaam. The woman is terrifying, even for a Sith – her bloodthirst seems to know no satiation or appropriate targeting. She protested her eternal loyalty  to her master loud enough that anyone passing in the corridors could hear, but Quinn does not believe her. He would be very surprised to learn that Vaiira did.

He also has no idea what she would make of him if she read him. His motives towards her master are hardly pure, but they are benign enough.  It is also possible that she will have the usual Sith blindness, and consider him beneath her notice. He treads cautiously about her all the same.

Mission after mission, as her eyes change from gold to red, Vaiira chooses him to accompany her. She beckons him to her side, listens when he speaks. She puts Moff Broysc’s fate in his hands, encourages him to remove the useless waste of oxygen from the galaxy. When the malapert Twi’lek slave pesters him, or that undisciplined rabble of a Lieutenant Pierce steps out of line to criticise him, she quells them. It is clear for all her crew to see: she favours him above the rest of them.

Here he is, then, Captain Malavai Quinn, the right hand of a Sith Lord. It is exactly what he has wanted for years, and there are only two problems. The first is Darth Baras. He will still expect Quinn’s loyalty, and he has tried already to kill Vaiira.  Quinn still believes – and with better grounds, now – that he cannot succeed in this, that Lord Vaiira is stronger than her old master. However, he might be wrong, and he will not cut his ties with Darth Baras completely until he is certain.

The second is himself. He does not understand it. All is going wonderfully well, and yet he is restless, discontented. He wants _more_. It is not mere impatience, a desire for the consummation of his careful seduction. Vaiira has kissed him, encouraged him to give free reign to his emotions (not yet, my lord), but she must take the lead in this, feel herself the aggressor. Truth be told, he enjoys the hesitance and restraint of his chosen role more than he’d expected. Pleasures only grow keener when deferred.

No, it is not a fault in his self-control that shapes this dissatisfaction. It is... it is... he struggles to understand it, night after night alone in his quarters. It is only once he stops asking ‘Why do I want more?’ and begins to ask ‘What, exactly, is it that I want?’ that the answer comes to him.

It takes quite a while longer for him to accept that he loves her. It is no longer a matter of her power and the privileges attached to her, it is not about his career or his duty. He does not deny that those things still allure him, but they are secondary considerations at best. He will choose her over them, and if she loses all else, she will still have him. If she will allow it. He would give his life for her, betray for her, and that is not an easy realisation for an officer of the Imperial Military.

This changes matters. He loves Vaiira. She... she enjoys his company and appreciates his competence. She is attracted to him, certainly. But love? It is not a word that one associates easily with any Sith. Nevertheless. He can hope that she might return his love, but Malavai Quinn has never believed in hope as a substitute for a course of action. The first step, he decides, is to gain her trust. It is not so difficult a task, even with a Sith, although it demands a huge gamble.

He will betray her.

If Vaiira were not Sith, the mere thought would be ludicrous. Treachery is not an endearing quality in a subordinate, much less a would-be lover. But she _is_ Sith, and expects to be betrayed. He has seen her watching every member of the crew, weighing them up: who is likely to turn against her, who has the motive, who has the power? Jaesa is suspect, of course, simply as her apprentice; the Talz is nothing more than a bloodthirsty beast, and the Twi’lek a weak one; Pierce is... something of a wild cannon. Quinn has never well understood soldiers like him; he is not certain what Vaiira makes of him, either. But any of them might play the traitor in the right circumstance.

Quinn himself... well. He knows she watches him, and she doubtless knows why he might plausibly betray her. He is too closely tied to her former master; he has been a tool in Baras’s hand for too long, owes him too much to easily walk away. He has been at her side through many battles, and therefore knows her strengths and weaknesses well enough to shape a real threat. No... she would not be surprised for an instant were he to turn against her; she might even consider it a matter of time. No declarations of loyalty or love, however sincere, could allay that kind of suspicion.

But if he prepared an ambush under Baras’s orders, made it clear it was not truly his will, and failed pathetically to kill her... well, at absolute and unlikely worst, he would somehow succeed. He could claim a change of heart and fight for her if something went wrong... there is some merit to that thought. A more likely worst-case scenario: he would die, probably over a long span of time and in agony. He does not think Vaiira is truly patient enough for torture, but it would not do to neglect the possibility. At best, she would blame Baras and forgive his lowly instrument, understanding both that Quinn had not wanted to hurt her, and that he did not have the power to do so in any case. The likely outcome, he thinks, lies somewhere between the two. He will give her the betrayal she expects, put himself into her debt, mark himself as no threat.

He thinks it through. He could lose everything; he could gain so much. It places him utterly at her mercy, which experience has taught him is not a particularly safe position. In some moods it seems like bleak insanity – but then Vaiira looks back over her shoulder at him, scarlet eyes direct and amused, inviting him to laugh with her at the fool who’s throwing himself on her lightsabers. He feels her hand squeezing tighter around his heart, and he will dare anything, anything at all, for her love.

* * *

Quinn contacts Baras and offers him Vaiira. He is able to convince him that he requires no back-up, that the combat metrics he’s gathered will enable him to program droids capable of killing her. He has even found a suitable venue. All he asks is for Baras to shelter him against the aftermath.

A calculated demand, that. Quinn is not certain whether Baras believes he can actually kill a Sith Lord – he is only a soldier, after all. He _is_ sure that, if he proved triumphant, Baras would have no further use for him. However, it is better to appear as though he trusts his former master, as though he will obey. It could be disastrous if he suspects Quinn’s true intentions, or if he sends someone more qualified after Vaiira.

He somehow finds the time, in among his other duties, to put everything in place. His ‘wardroids’ are resurfaced miners – with enough tinkering to their algorithms to seem convincing without doing real damage – and he monitors the location of his chosen derelict station. He paces the ship’s corridors at night, wracking his brains for every last thing that needs his attention, that could go wrong.

He cannot permit anything to go wrong. The stakes are far too high.

He is ready, when a favourable time presents itself (Baras has grown loudly impatient, by then, but accepts Quinn’s reasoning that it could not have happened any sooner). He has practiced the necessary lies until they roll smoothly from his tongue, oiled them with carefully-chosen truths and what would be truths if he was genuinely attempting to achieve her death.

All the same, he is almost shocked at his good fortune when it is only the two of them who board the transponder station, and his nerve nearly fails him. He can only begin his speech when he is not looking at her. “... Darth Baras is my true master. He had me lure you here to have you killed.”

Her voice is not quite as firm as usual. “My teachers at the Academy would be ashamed of me. How foolish it was, not to realise you were manipulating me.”

Quinn turns, then, cannot help but turn. He searches her face, cannot see the hurt there, but he can hear it. A difficult lie, this one. “My lord, it was not – please understand, this is not a matter of my emotions. I didn’t want to make this decision, but my hand has been forced.”

This is a mistake, he suddenly thinks, but it is too late to turn back now. The only way out is through.

She lifts her lightsabers free, activates them. That hum of power is much more intimidating when they might mean his death. “I really thought you were smarter than this, Quinn.”

“You’ll see,” he says, and reveals his specially programmed droids. “I... I am sorry it’s come to this, my lord.” If only there had been any other way to gain her trust – if she had not been Sith-

“You will be,” she says, and dashes towards him.

He’d known the droids would fall, that she would defeat and possibly kill him. What he hadn’t calculated accurately is how quickly it would happen – she tears through them like gizka, and he has barely fired one volley from his blaster before she is upon him, lightsabers screaming, the stink of burnt flesh even before the pain, raw Force hammering him and he falls to his knees, her face full of disgust as she looks down at him, the lightsabers hovering so close to his throat that any movement would take his head –

But she hasn’t killed him yet, so he has to think through the red clouds in his mind and find the right words, because his battle will be won or lost here - “I should have known. I thought I’d programmed the perfect killing machine -“

“I _do not_ want to hear you babble,” Vaiira interrupts him.

No. She wouldn’t. Instead he grovels, apologises with a depth of emotion born not out of remorse, but of terror and of love. He doesn’t expect mercy, but he hopes he has said enough to save his life, to –

She reaches out, with a gesture he must have seen a thousand times, and he manages to choke out a desperate “ _please,”_ before she dangles him in the air and begins to crush his windpipe. She watches him struggle for breath, and even as the world hazes away, he sees her contempt.

Then she flicks him away, and he _breaks_ upon the bulkhead _,_ and darkness –

* * *

Quinn wakes, which is one thing he hadn’t been at all certain about, and upon a soft surface, more in discomfort than the pain he remembers. The sounds are those of the _Fury_ , and when he drags up heavy eyelids, the ceiling that of his own quarters.

“He’s awake!” the Twi’lek shrieks, and he hears Vaiira’s distinctive stride approach, hears her dismiss the slave, and close the door to his quarters behind her. Hears her lock it.

“Get up, Quinn,” she orders him, although he was already rising to his feet. There are the aches of barely-healed bones, a stiffness in his limbs that speaks of long hours in a kolto tank, but his feet hold him steady enough. He does not dare raise his eyes.

“My lord, I didn’t expect this-“ Will she kill him now? Has she brought him back to the ship, and back to reasonable health, simply to make a better spectacle of him? Or has his ruse succeeded?

“No.” She circles closer. As always, her lightsabers hang from her belt. Her hands are resting on them, not yet closed about the hilts. “What did you expect, Quinn? Death? Or merely punishment? What would you do if you were me, looking at a traitor?”

“My lord, I deserve whatever justice you choose to mete-“

“ _Not_ an answer,” Vaiira cuts across him. “Fortunately I have had time to consider the matter for you. Kneel before me.”

Anything she asks, although he is still afraid as he obeys. Has he miscalculated this gamble, after all?

“Bow your head.”

An easy target. Perhaps it will be a clean lightsaber strike. He has no regrets, although perhaps he should have left a letter for her, explaining his motives... He imagines death will be painful, wonders if there will even be time to learn.

She approaches.

It feels like cold, smooth metal, and the pain is white fire, thin screaming, how could there be this much pain for so long, shouldn’t he be dead by now, how could he be dead and still screaming and –

\- it stops. He is curled up on the floor, trembling in every muscle, and Vaiira is sitting beside him. She strokes his hair as she speaks to him in a quiet, friendly, matter-of-fact tone, and eventually her voice resolves into words. “- foolish. I knew. Of course I knew. You gave yourself away over and over again. You invented an obstacle and a solution, and asked me to take you to an isolated location. My Quinn, you have never before asked to come with me. Of course I knew you intended to betray me, attempt to kill me.” She chuckles, that low, dark sound. “You never had a chance – even if your ambush hadn’t been so utterly pathetic. Specially programmed droids? Really? Only two of them? I could almost be insulted.”

She’d known. He hadn’t been sure. He had also wondered if she’d see through it entirely, realise that his betrayal had never been meant to succeed. It seems that she has not. Much as he loves her, even his lord is not always as clever as she believes herself to be.

It begins to appear as though he has been, this once.

 “Quinn, my Quinn. I know, you believed you were Darth Baras’s man. You’re not. You’re mine, and you have been ever since we left Balmorra.”

Almost true, he thinks. Her touch is gentle, as he has never before known her to be. “M-my lord,” he says hoarsely, and wonders if, this time, she will hear that those oft-spoken words are every bit as possessive as hers. He has claimed her every time he’s said them, since he chose her side.   

She traces his lips with a fingertip, perhaps in response, and returns to softly combing her fingers through his hair. “So, now you’ve seen for yourself how futile rebellion is. Not even someone who knows me as well as you do can stop me. You know that your life is in my hands, that you owe me more than you ever owed Baras. How will you deal with that? Whose man are you truly, Malavai Quinn?”

“Yours, my lord,” he answers, and cannot quite suppress the pride in his voice. He has won. He has predicted her responses within an acceptable margin of error, and now he has her exactly where he wished her to be. He can say those words now, and Vaiira will believe them. The Sith will understand debt, fear, and her own power better than all the other motives he could offer, for now. “I will serve you with utmost loyalty, I will dedicate the rest of my life to redeeming myself in your eyes-”

“Yes,” Vaiira says, and her hand trails down to the nape of his neck, and the cold lines of metal there. He shivers. “You will. I have given you a reminder, my Quinn. Vette has no more need of a shock collar to remember her place, but it seems the same cannot be said for you. I don’t anticipate that you will need to wear it long – she got the idea quite quickly, and she is Twi’lek vermin, while you are a much more intelligent man. You also have the advantage that I have dialled the collar to its maximum setting. Each lesson will make much, much more of an impression.”

This... this he had not anticipated. “I – as you wish, my lord. I will do my best to demonstrate my devotion to you, to regain your trust. If I may ask-?”

“You may. It’s a shock collar, Quinn, not a gag.”

“Ah... yes, my lord.” He is feeling stronger now, but he will not rise, not even sit up, until she requests it of him. For one thing, it is more respectful; for another, he is in no hurry to change the intimacy of their positions and the unexpected gentleness of her touch. “Have you – what have you told the crew?”

She stares down at him, hand still on the collar, one thumb idly stroking the skin above it. “As far as they are concerned, we successfully retrieved the signal emitter, but a foe revealed himself as we were leaving. You were an idiot and nearly got yourself killed. After I took care of the threat, I dragged your sorry arse back here.”

Which was... more or less the truth. Simple lies were always more convincing.

“Pierce is even more convinced of your uselessness, both Jaesa and Broonmark think I should have left you to die, and Vette took a vid of you dangling over my shoulder and drooling on the floor. They think you weak and laughable, but not treacherous. I have made it clear to them that you are still my second-in-command.” She taps the shock collar. “You have my permission to hide this as best you can – I am assuming you would prefer not to openly display a slave’s collar. If ever you are asked about it, you may say only that it is my will you wear it.” The look she gives him now has a touch of humour in it, a spark of heat. “I have no doubt that will lead to some speculation about my... amusements. Endure it.”

“My lord,” he says, his pulse leaping in answer to that glance, “any such speculation would honour me far beyond my due. It would be no punishment to me.”

“I know,” Vaiira answers. She takes hold of the shock collar and yanks him up to his knees, fastens her mouth to his. Her kiss is hard, savage; blood fills his mouth as she bites his lip, and she growls as he strains closer to her. Oh, but he loves her, and even with the indignity of a slave’s collar and the certainty of a great deal of pain in his future, he rejoices. They are both alive, and all has gone to plan –

She breaks away as suddenly as she’d kissed him, is on her feet looking down at him. “ _Mine,”_ she says, his blood scarlet on her mouth.

“Yours, my lord-“ he replies, or begins to when the shock collar activates again.

When the pain ceases, he is alone.

* * *

She doesn’t shock him as often as he expects, and never when he is in public. Most often she interrupts his sleep – not every night, and never more than twice. If he were on active duty he might be concerned about the lack of sleep affecting his performance, but she takes Broonmark down to Corellia with her. Quinn worries about that, at times, when the maintenance work is not keeping him as occupied as he would prefer – he doubts that the beast can keep its mind sufficiently focused to provide the proper combat support for Vaiira.

He thinks about the woman he loves much too often. He gains no peace of mind from it, and it does affect his work, but he cannot do otherwise. He puzzles over why he is still alive, and whether, after all, her reason for sparing him is the one he hopes to hear. It could be, or perhaps he is merely deluding himself. She has never shown gentleness to him before. It may be significant.

When she returns to the ship, she is accompanied by the Talz and by a Sith Lord of Pureblood lineage. Quinn bows immediately, and feels, more than sees, Vaiira glaring at the others until they follow suit. “This is Darth Vowrawn,” she addresses them. “He’ll help us stand against Baras. Baras has sent assassins after him. If they get as far as this ship, I expect you to deal with them. Quinn.”

He raises his head. Darth Vowrawn appears to be smirking, and he is staring at the collar of Quinn’s uniform. He resists the urge to tug at it and drawn further attention- the shock collar had been well hidden when he checked it fifteen minutes ago. He tries to ignore the man, focuses on Vaiira. “My lord?”

“As usual, you’re in charge. You are also primarily responsible for Darth Vowrawn’s safety while he’s on the ship.”

“Understood, my lord.” He bows again, watches her leave and Broonmark follow. Then he turns his attention to honouring their guest.

There are no guest quarters on the ship, as such. Broonmark’s lies vacant, of course, but it is a mess of fur and half-rotten hunting trophies, and no fit place for a guest. The others’ are arguably worse – with the exception of Vaiira’s, which Quinn would not dream of touching. Instead, he ends up vacating his own quarters in order to provide the Darth with a room, and finding a reasonably sanitary corner of the Talz’s quarters for himself.

Most distasteful.

When he goes to check if Darth Vowrawn has all he needs for the night, the Sith asks him a moment of his time.

“Of course, Darth Vowrawn,” he answers. It is a clumsy way to address the man, but he cannot call him ‘my lord’; that title belongs solely to Vaiira.

“No need for excessive formality, Captain,” he says, and waves Quinn to a chair. “I’m old enough and secure enough not to stand on rank. Besides, although I wish to ask you something touching on the matter of the Wrath’s loyalty, it’s mostly for my own prurient curiosity.”

“Lord Vaiira is entirely dedicated to the interests of the Empire –“ Quinn protests immediately.

“So I surmise. Do relax, Captain, and pay attention to that word ‘prurient’, assuming you know what it means. My question is a much simpler one: why are you wearing a shock collar beneath your uniform?”

Quinn would have found it easy to outface any member of the crew who might have asked him that; the Darth is a different matter. He can feel his face heating as he gives the answer Vaiira commanded. “I...it is a matter of my lord’s will.”

To his shock, Darth Vowrawn laughs – no mere snicker or chuckle, but full-blown, gut-deep laughter. He knows he’s growing redder as it continues, and he feels about five years old by the time the Sith shakes his head. “Your _face_! I can see why she enjoys you. I may question her choices – hers is an ancient and honoured bloodline, and she should find herself an appropriate mate, not some Force-deaf solider – but I cannot fault her taste.”

“Darth Vowrawn, _please_ -“

The Sith Pureblood pays his protestation no real attention. “Now, lad, would you like a little more information about Sith women, hard-won over hundreds of years, or would you prefer to let her surprise you?”

“I have the situation in hand,” he answers curtly - without an appropriate honorific, but this is really too much.

“Oh, I doubt that, Captain, but I see I try your patience a little more than a guest should.” The joviality fades from his face as he motions Quinn to stand. “Accept this much from an old Sith: ‘through passion I gain strength’. That is the Sith Code. It seems Lord Vaiira is passionate about you. Allow yourself some pride in that, because she is one of the strongest Sith I have ever encountered.”

Quinn could not have expected that, isn’t sure how to take it. “Ah... thank you, Darth Vowrawn.”

The Sith shrugged. “It is merely an observation. It may not end well for you: the statistics are quite grim. Passion is always double-edged. I thank you for your indulgence, Captain. I would appreciate it if you would send Lord Vaiira’s apprentice in for me. I am eager to examine this unique power we all heard Baras boasting about.”

“Right away, Darth Vowrawn,” he says, and hurries to obey.

* * *

The assassins arrive several nights later, just as Quinn is recovering from a reminder that Lord Vaiira is thinking of him. Somewhat unsteady on his feet, he snatches up his blaster, rouses the ship, and musters them around the airlock. For a minor wonder, they obey him as smoothly as true soldiers under his command. The fighting is close, the assassins skilled. They nearly lose Vette (no true loss, but unnecessary casualties are unacceptable), and the last assassin breaks and runs.

She does not get far before Quinn chases her down and executes her. He holsters his blaster and turns back towards the _Fury_. Darth Vowrawn is standing in the airlock, looking as delighted as if he has just listened to a rousing aria at the opera – as Quinn approaches, he even begins to applaud. He inclines his head to the Sith, addresses the crew. “Jaesa, move the Twi’lek to the medbay; I’ll tend to her there. Once that’s done, return here and help Pierce with clean-up.”

His orders quench a little of the battle-lust in the apprentice’s eyes, but she obeys him readily enough. And Pierce... well, for the first time since they’d picked up the lout on Taris, Pierce salutes him with no evident irony. And then gets to work. Astounding.

“When you’re free, Captain,” Darth Vowrawn says, “we will attempt to reach Lord Vaiira on the holocommunicator. I would like her to hear about her crew’s performance.”

The Sith _winks_ at him.

As it happens, they successfully make contact. Quinn assesses Vaiira as the Darth reports to her. She appears as he has so often seen her: the smears of others’ blood only highlighting her beauty, proud and confident. Good. The Talz has been performing adequately, and there is no reason at present to skin it. He searches, too, for any sign to confirm or deny his private hypothesis, but cannot be sure.

Darth Vowrawn comes to the conclusion of a glowing report on the crew’s performance, and an even more impressive one of him in particular. “I am atoning for a past error,” he says, ostensibly to deflect the Sith’s praise, but he looks only at her. “My commitment to my lord is unassailable now.”

It takes him a moment to identify her expression; he has never seen her smile without irony or cruelty before. It reminds him of her hand, gentle on his hair. “So I am inclined to believe.”

Oh, yes. Once she returns to the ship, he will beg an audience. It is time, he thinks, to take the final risk. “Regardless, I am yours, my lord.”

“I know,” she says, and cuts the connection.

Back on the ship, beside him, Darth Vowrawn shakes his head. “You know, sometimes I wonder how I survived being that young. Enjoy it while it lasts, Captain.”

* * *

Quinn had not expected to see Vaiira return to the ship before her business on Corellia was concluded, but she does. She needs Darth Vowrawn present for the next stage of their plan, and does not like him to wander about Corellia without her to protect him. She wishes Quinn to accompany them, since Darth Vowrawn speaks so highly of him.

One night before battle. It is all the chance he asks.

Quinn approaches her to ask a private audience. It is a carefully-worded request; there is no truly private place on the ship at the moment, save for her quarters, and he does not want to push his luck or offend through presumption. She does not hesitate, however, and permits him to enter. The door is locked behind him.

There is only one chair in the austere room, which she takes. He stands between her and the foot of her bed, and searches for the right words to begin. He has practiced them over and over again against this conversation, but now, at the crucial moment, they desert him.

“My Quinn, you resemble a fish,” she tells him. “Speak if you will, leave if you’re going to be silent, but don’t try my patience by standing there opening and shutting your mouth.” Her tone is brisk... but she is not holding the controller for the shock collar, and there is something in her eyes he does not recognise.

“Ah... yes, my lord.” He takes a deep breath, stands at military attention. “My betrayal has lain heavily on my mind ever since you spared me. I have thought of little else while you’ve been away.”

“Unsurprising,” Vaiira comments.

“Although I am grateful beyond words to be alive and capable of making up for my error, I confess, I do not understand your mercy.”

“Quinn,” she says, and smiles at him, baring her teeth. “I have explained myself already. You’re mine. That’s not something you can escape.”

“I am, my lord.” Another breath. “It seemed to me, however, that there might be something more to it than that. I thought, perhaps, you might be falling in love with me. As I have fallen in love with you.”

“A well-timed confession,” she says, but her voice is soft, devoid of the sarcasm the words suggest. “Do you really think it enough to get you out of that shock collar?”

He steps towards her, and his answer comes fiercely, barely controlled. “My lord, shock collar or no, you hold my life in your hands. You could crush me with a thought. Do so if it pleases you, but do not doubt me in this. _I love you_.”

She rises to her feet, red eyes burning, fixed on his. “My Quinn-“

“My lord,” he interrupts her, as he’s never done before. “Do you love me? Say it.” His voice trembles as he gives the order, but not with fear.

The words sound like a battlecry. “I love you.”

Quinn roughly pulls Vaiira to him, presses the long lines of her body against his. No more need for restraint, not now – finally he can touch her, taste her as he’s longed to do. His mouth is hard, bruising, when it comes down on hers. His teeth scrape over her lip, winning a small sound of pleasure from her throat, as close to a surrender as he can ever imagine from her. He presses his small advantage as her hands knot in his hair, seeking the heat of her mouth and the stroke of her tongue. She masters him quickly, of course, forcing him down to the edge of the bed, her weight both pleasurable and a little painful as she straddles him.

Her love is a violent thing, demanding, sharp-edged. He feels her teeth in every kiss, the threat of her strength in each caress. It could almost terrify him, how much she excites him, but it is... she is... too glorious for fear.

She takes his hand, guides it to her belt.

He is panting for breath as he breaks the kiss. “Vaiira – may I-“

“ _Don’t_ make me order you,” she growls, and sets her teeth in his throat.

He does not.

* * *

Malavai Quinn wakes and finds, to his surprise and pleasure, that his lord and his love has not already left. Instead, she is sleeping with her head pillowed on his chest and snoring quite horrifically. The things one learnt... She mutters something that sounded like “won’t be a heart left beating,” which is definitely more characteristic than snoring, and he has to suppress quiet laughter for fear of waking her. His lips feel swollen and are probably cracked; his throat and shoulders are covered in the small, purple marks of her teeth; it seems unlikely that her nails have left much skin on his back at all; he is naked, defenceless, and the Sith Lord in the bed with him talks of killing people in her sleep.

And things simply could not be better.

Vaiira stirs, presses herself closer to him. “Mmmm. Good morning.” She traces aimless patterns over his chest and shoulders as she blinks herself properly awake.

“I confess, I find it hard to imagine a better one.”

She makes a small sound of irritation as she shifts to press a kiss to the side of his neck, and encounters the shock collar. “Do turn over, my Malavai. I’d forgotten I’d left that on.”

Glad to obey – except that it means she is no longer draped over him - he turns his back to her, feels the collar lift away. It clatters on the floor, and he feels her mouth, wet on the newly-exposed skin. “Much better,” she murmurs, in between her kisses.

“I would not disagree,” he says, and is rewarded by a sharp nip. 

“You are – _usually_  – wiser than that,” Vaiira agrees, before settling herself back down by his side.

He strokes the lovely dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, still cannot quite believe how fortunate he is. “My lord-”

“I seem to recall you were somewhat less formal last night,” Vaiira says, propping herself up on an elbow. “Please,” she punctuates the word by leaning down to kiss him, “recall that you have my permission to speak freely.”

 “Vaiira,” he says, and it is sweet on his tongue. “might I request a favour?”

She chuckles at that. “In which sense of the word, my Malavai? In either case, I am feeling inclined to indulge you.”

“Ah... I regret to say that it is purely a mundane concern. Would it be too much to ask you to clear Jaesa out of the medbay for about an hour? I... would not quite be operating at full combat effectiveness as I find myself this morning.”

She throws her head back as she laughs. “And you would feel terribly vulnerable under her scrutiny. She scares you.”

“Yes, my love.”

“ She would not dare touch you. You’re mine.” Her hand trails down his chest, comes to rest on his hip. “And what if I like seeing my marks upon you, Malavai?”

He cups the side of her face, strokes his thumb over her lips. “Then it will be as you desire.”

“Yes,” she says, as her touch rouses him again, as she drops her mouth to his collarbone. “But you may tidy yourself up if you wish. I’ll take care of Jaesa.”

The apprentice vanishes from his mind immediately.

As does combat performance, for that matter.

* * *

‘Through passion I gain strength’. Either it is true, or else Corellia is full of the most grotesquely incompetent individuals Quinn has ever put out of their misery. Draahg returns, a rebuilt monstrosity of a man who had nearly beaten Vaiira the first time they duelled... and he falls almost before he’s finished bragging about his indestructibility.

Battle-fever rages bright behind her eyes, unslaked by such a an easy victory. It is entirely unprofessional – and they have an audience – but if the Entity had not chosen that moment to speak, he would have drawn her to him and kissed her. He will have to watch that tendency, Quinn thinks.

A planet cheers her as their liberator, and they set their course for Korriban before the echoes die. It is a relief to be back on the ship, and to enjoy the privacy – and demands - of her quarters. He has no fear of their impending confrontation with Baras; they are unstoppable now. He tells her as much, one evening, and makes a suggestion.

To his delight, he sees that he’s surprised her – but Vaiira always has recovered well from surprises. “My Malavai,” she purrs, “you always do have the best ideas.”

“I am not familiar with Sith protocol in these matters, my lord,” – the title still falls from him more easily that her name, perhaps because he still uses it in public, perhaps because of all it meant to him for so long, “but in the military, a marriage requires the consent and witness of the commanding officer, or officers, of the parties involved.”

 “Which would be me.”

“Well, not technically, as you _are_ one of the parties involved.”

She shakes her head. “How nice that we’re not ‘technically’ a military operation, then. Sith are married if we say we are. It’s customary to openly declare it and invite witnesses if it’s a political partnership, but it’s generally safer if other Sith are not aware of your attachments.”

He has no difficulty interpreting that. “I may be targeted by your enemies if this is too widely known.”

Vaiira shrugs, which is an arresting sight while naked. “Possibly, although only the stupidest and bravest would challenge me. I foresee no real threat to you once Baras is dead.” She shrugs again, returns to the main thread of the conversation. “I _would_ have to inform them at the Academy of the birth of any children; they keep records on all the Sith bloodlines there.”

“Vaiira-“ He had not thought so far ahead, would not have presumed, but he can see it now – cradling a small, dark-haired infant with her eyes – and the strength of his response to that image surprises him. His love has anticipated a wish he had not been aware he harboured.

She laughs. “I can see you imagining it,  my Malavai. The prospect attracts you, doesn’t it?”

“I... want nothing more,” he admits, although he is aware that there are things he wants _equally_ – Baras dead, Vaiira safe, to remain at her side. “If you also desire it, it will be.”

“When our duties permit,” she says. Her teeth scrape softly over the point of his shoulder. “Lightsabers and pregnant bellies do not mix well, or so I’m told. Now, Malavai. What promises will you make to me, in order to marry me?”

Quinn is aware there are set wordings for wedding vows, but he has never researched them, and certainly does not have them on hand. “If you will permit me a moment to look up the customary-“

“I’m not interested in what is _customary_. I want to hear what you have to say.”

Meeting her eyes, the words come easily after all. “You are my lord and my love. My life is yours, as are my obedience, my service. I will never falter again, standing at your side through whatever may come.” He takes her hand, kisses her fingertips. “Every last one of my days and every drop of my blood is at your command, and I will not fail you, for your love strengthens me.”

“Good,” Vaiira says softly. “Very good.”  She folds her other hand about his. “Through passion I gain strength, Malavai Quinn, and through our love, together we are strong. My strength shall ever be used to protect you and to destroy your enemies. Never will I turn it against you. This is the only chain I will never break. Without you I can know no victory, but only ashes and revenge.” A small breath, and she adds, “You are my husband.”

“You are my wife,” he echoes.

Her nails score deeply on his sides as he kisses her.

* * *

Baras has no idea what he’s unleashed. Quinn cannot read his facial expressions, of course, but no mask can hide the absolute fury in his voice, the clench of his fists, when they arrive. Traitors, he calls them.

“Not so, Baras,” Quinn says, and properly he should have waited for Vaiira to speak, but he is certain she will not mind. The Dark Council might, but he has the protection of the Wrath of the Emperor, and they cannot touch him. “My loyalties are simply not what you have believed them to be.”

“Malavai Quinn is _mine_ ,” Vaiira adds, “but let us not bicker over the captain. You have claimed more important things than him that did not belong to you. I am the Emperor’s Wrath, and you are not his Voice.”

There is more discussion among the Dark Council, but Quinn pays it little attention; his focus is on Vaiira, on Baras, and the fight he knows is waiting. He has been anticipating it ever since he first heard of Vaiira’s existence, has been certain of her victory ever since he first saw her.

He is ready when Baras charges, firing as Vaiira’s lightsabers block his strike. As ever in battle, he constantly assesses the situation. Even in those first moments, he can see it: Baras is no weakling, but against the Emperor’s Wrath, a warrior in her prime, he does not have a chance. In fact, she is almost playing with him. A dangerous tactic, and he does not truly approve – better to end it as soon as possible, but conceivably she also wishes to show her strength to the Dark Council. The best counter for Lord Baras, the logical move, would be to turn his attention to the weaker opponent on the field-

Quinn thinks it, but not in time to dodge the thrown lightsaber- no, not now, he was so _close_ , Vaiira is shrieking and the world is fading –

* * *

 Quinn wakes, which comes as a pleasant surprise, and finds himself upon a soft surface. He aches, but only that. The sounds are those of the _Fury_ , and a familiar hand is stroking his hair. The feeling that he has been here before is so strong that he is not entirely certain this is reality. If everything he remembers after his ‘betrayal’ is merely a trick of his dreaming mind, he will be most severely disappointed.

He forces his eyelids opens, and sees that he is safe in Vaiira’s quarters. His head, in fact, is resting in her lap. “My l-“

“My Malavai, I am most displeased with your performance in our recent combat.”

“Justly so, my lord. I should have been quicker-“

“You _are not permitted_ to fall, do you understand me? You _are not allowed_ to terrify me, and you can put any thoughts you may have of dying at _any_ point in the future _right out of your head!”_

He smiles. He cannot help it. “As always, I hear and obey, my lord.”

“Did I give you permission to interrupt me?”

“No, my love. But do shut up,” he says, and yanks her mouth down to his. It is not the most comfortable of positions, nor the most graceful of retorts, but it suffices.

Perhaps one day Quinn will confess to her the exact truth of his betrayal. He knows how she would laugh, the wickedness of her smile, how she would call him clever... and hurt him, just a little, for daring to manipulate her like that.

Perhaps he never will. It does not do to give a Sith, however beloved, the exact measure of your capabilities. Besides, he enjoys knowing he has this small piece of power she does not.

For now, however, all is as he would wish it to be. Not only has he achieved his long-held goal, but he loves her. She loves him.

Let the galaxy tremble before them.


End file.
